I’ve been known to
frequently occasionally put my foot in my mouth. Which is why I wear Converse a lot. Their soles have a pleasant, somewhat vanilla flavor to them and just the faintest pecan aftertaste.
I’m most prone to humiliating myself and others when meeting celebrities. Unfortunately, I’ve met a lot of them. As a former journalist, screenwriter and music enthusiast, I’ve ended up hanging out with actors and musicians that some people would kill their mothers for the chance to meet. Of course, anyone who would off their mom to meet a mere mortal was probably thinking about the offing part long before the opportunity to meet Celebrity X arose, so keep that in mind.
A little over a decade ago, I was covering a film festival for a Florida magazine, interviewing actors, various industry big shots and writing about the festival’s community outreach program. My VIP Pass got me into everything: movie screenings, roundtable discussions with actors and directors, The Filmmakers’ Lounge, late night after parties, and a gala honoring Alan Alda, star of television’s M*A*S*H and feature films like The Four Seasons and Betsy’s Wedding. This was not my first time at the film festival rodeo, but Alan Alda was definitely one of the most respected actors I’d met at the time.
Growing up in the Seventies, you couldn’t not be in awe of the man who not only played the loveable smartass, Hawkeye Pierce on one of the most popular and longest-running prime time series of all time, but also wrote and/or directed many of the episodes. In fact, M*A*S*H’s 1983 finale, Goodbye, Farewell and Amen was directed by Alda – and remains the most widely-viewed episode in television history. Plus, Alda was known as the archetypal Mr. Sensitive Male of his generation, a loving husband and father, and an outspoken proponent of feminism and women’s rights.
As you can imagine, I had put some thought into what I would say when I finally met Alan Alda. In fact, I had gone above and beyond my normal preparation and brought with me a prop. One which I was sure would reduce the star to tears of laughter and cement our immediate friendship – not to mention garner me an in-depth and candid interview with him which would land me a gig writing for People, and revamp the world’s interest in Alda, whose career was in a bit of a slump at the time.
Throughout the gala, I’d sat patiently at a large, round table with other journalists and independent filmmakers I’d gotten to know over the past few days. Nervously, I balanced my prop on my lap as I chatted with my neighbors, all the while keeping my eye on the back of Alda’s head just a few tables away. Having attended events like this in the past, I knew my window of opportunity was a small one. Once a major award like this is presented to a celebrity, they are often whisked away for photo ops with bigwig festival contributors, board members and local politicians. And Alda didn’t look like the kind of guy who was likely to show up for the after party and booze it up with the little people. I needed to get to him and make that connection before the announcer hit the podium, at which point chitchatting with the guest of honor would be frowned upon. Particularly when you’re not seated at his table and are, in fact, squatting on the floor next to him, looking a bit like Gollum in a cocktail dress. My Pwecious, Alan Alda. My Pwecious.
Excusing myself I stood up, my prop clutched in my left hand, and strode purposefully towards Alda’s gray head, smoothing down my dress with my free fingers. By the time I made it to his table, the actor, dressed tastefully in a black tux, was talking with a woman I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t have time to engage in trivial things like manners and politeness. “Excuse me, Mr. Alda,” I said, my voice wavering slightly, “could I show you something?”
“Umm. Sure,” he replied with a nod to the woman that said, Another fan. You know how it is. Gimme a sec. Returning his attention to me, he asked kindly, “What’s your name, dear?”
Crap! He thinks I’m going to ask for an autograph. I’m a journalist, for chrissakes. I don’t ask for celebrities’ signatures; I ask for intimate details about their painful childhoods. I probe to discover what motivated their Emmy or Academy Award winning performances. I inquire about their exes and their most recent stints in rehab. And their phone numbers – I always go for the phone numbers.
Except this wasn’t exactly true. Though I’d been to film festivals in the past and hobnobbed with the rich and famous, this was the first time I had actually covered an event like this for a magazine. A regional magazine, in fact, for which I typically wrote articles about things like generic vs. brand name drugs, grandparents raising their grandchildren, and ways to summerize your home. But the film festival was big news in our town – and none of the other writers on staff had any experience dealing with celebrities. I mean, you can’t just allow anyone to talk to actors. An unsophisticated reporter could potentially embarrass the magazine by verbally regurgitating every possible version of “I’m such a big fan of your work” over and over again, thereby losing the actor’s respect and reducing any chance of scoring a big interview to nil.
But I wouldn’t let that happen. No, I was a professional and I was going to charm the pants off this mega star with my secret prop weapon. “I’m Cristy,” I replied in a deep, husky NPR voice, extending my hand to Alan Alda. Except I had squatted down by that time, my prop balanced precariously on my thighs, so when he took my hand in his, I began to tip…backwards. Desperately, I grabbed for the back of his chair with my left hand, but it was one of those rounded motherfuckers that slipped right out of my fingers. As the angle between my body and the ground became more and more acute, I could feel Alda’s hand tighten around mine, yet I was still falling. Did I outweigh Alan Alda? No, I was pin thin back in those days, but he wasn’t exactly a spring chicken. What if he had a back or hip problem and, by clutching my hand and pulling me towards him in attempt to save me from a dastardly and humiliating fall in front of at least 500 people, he was being permanently injured. I’d be forever known as the journalist who threw out Alan Alda’s back. Celebrities would avoid me like Gary Busey at future festivals because they would have heard stories about the reporter responsible for Alan Alda needing hip replacement surgery – the one that he didn’t survive because he contracted MRSA in the hospital and died of pneumonia. Dear God, I was killing Hawkeye Pierce.
There was only one solution. I had to let go. I would take the fall for all the Alan Alda fans in the world. As I relaxed my right hand, I braced myself for the painful thud that I was sure to come. Visions of myself lying supine on the floor, my little black dress bunched up around my hips, my panties – oh, shit! What kind of panties was I wearing? Please don’t let it be the Hello Kitty bikinis. Or the granny panties with skid marks. Perhaps if I’d considered the status of my underwear before deciding to let go of Alan Alda’s hand, I wouldn’t have been so impetuous with my decision to suffer this kind of embarrassment on behalf of the beloved actor’s health. I mean, the dude was old. Medicare old. He probably already needed surgery for dozens of bulging and herniated discs, and I was just going to be the proverbial journalist who broke the proverbial actor’s back.
But before I could re-tighten my grip, Alda’s adrenaline began pumping and he violently hauled me up from a failing squat to a semi-vertical position, which saved my ass both literally and figuratively, but also caused my prop to slide from my lap and flop open on the floor. Quickly, he dropped my hand and stared at the midnight blue book lying on the plush carpet. “You okay?” he asked, as almost an afterthought, still gazing at the book.
“Fine. I’m fine,” I replied, even though my legs were still shaking. Because I was fine. Alda was interested in my prop. My plan was going to work beautifully. Perhaps not in the way in which I had anticipated. I’d hoped to work in a little small talk before wowing him with what would likely be one of the funniest things he’d ever seen. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see the announcer organizing his speech cards, preparing to mount the steps to the stage. Why dilute this meeting with trivial chitchat when I could make a first impression that the actor would never forget?
“What’s that you’ve got there?” Alda asked, still eyeing the book. He probably thinks I want him to sign it. So cute!
I broke out in a wide smile. “It’s my fourth grade yearbook.” The wrinkle of curiosity wedged between Alda’s eyebrows deepened. “I’ve been wanting to show you this for years. You won’t believe it.” Retrieving the book, I quickly flipped through to a dog-eared page I’d shown many people over the years – all of whom had shaken their heads in disbelief and laughed. But now, I had the audience for whom this joke had been intended all along.
Flipping the book over so that Alan Alda could inspect the page entitled Seventh Grade, I pointed to a photograph. Of a thirteen year old girl. A girl who was the spitting image of Alan Alda. She had the same high forehead and smiling eyes. The same narrow-bridged nose with slightly-bulbous nostrils and a squared-off tip, reminiscent of a Doonesbury character. The identical toothy grin and strong, prominent chin.
“This is what you’d look like if you were a girl!” I exclaimed excitedly, tapping the space next to Alan Alda’s long lost twin.
The actor yanked the book from my hands, the look on his face swiftly transitioning from surprise to suspicion. Adjusting his glasses, he peered at the photograph intently. “It’s uncanny,” I blabbed. “She could be your daughter.” I chuckled at the hilarity of it all.
Was he looking at the wrong picture? Maybe he just couldn’t see it very well? It was a small photo – and in black and white. I reached over the top of the yearbook and pointed to the photo again.
“Yes, I see it,” Alda finally said. Then his lips spread…into a long, grim line. Lifting his face to mine, he regarded me and my grin through squinted eyes that weren’t so smiley anymore. “What are you saying?”
Huh? Is he a retard? I’ve heard of dumb actors before, but c’mon. “I’m just saying she looks just like you. I’ve showed it to lots of people over the years and everyone agrees that she’s your spitting image. You know, if you were a…girl.” I nodded my head enthusiastically, as if my bobbing head confirmed this statement.
The woman I’d interrupted when I’d first approached Alan Alda suddenly interjected, “Let me see, honey.” Honey? Shit! Without taking his eyes off of me, the actor handed the yearbook to his wife – whom I’d rudely cut off moments earlier.
“Hmmmm,” the successful children’s book author and spouse of Alan Alda said as she examined the picture, her face registering no expression whatsoever. Arelene Alda had one helluva poker face, but I could feel a kind of steam coming off of her. Like when a cartoon bull snorts and paws the ground in front of it before charging. Suddenly, I realized what I’d done. By suggesting that the girl in the photo looked so much like Alda that she could be his daughter, the actor and his wife believed I was actually accusing him of being her father. Holy shit! The thought had honestly never occurred to me, but Alda was the right age, after all. He could conceivably be her father. And as a wealthy actor, he’d probably been accused of fathering any number of illegitimate children by less-than-reputable women looking for payout. Instead of cementing our friendship with humor, I’d insulted Alan Alda…and at a gala in his honor, no less.
Thank goodness, I’d never gotten the opportunity to introduce myself as a journalist. That would have only made it worse; Alda would have thought I was cornering him with evidence of his indiscretions. He might have assumed I was going to blackmail him or write a huge exposé about a tawdry, extramarital relationship that he’d never had. As I tried to figure out how I could climb out of the grave I’d dug for myself, the actor’s eyes dropped to the VIP badge dangling around my neck. The one with my name and photo on it. The one that prominently read “Press” directly beneath my name. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
In the background, the announcer was climbing the stairs and, throughout the room, the lights were dimming. Mrs. Alda closed the yearbook with an air of finality and handed it back to me. “Is there anything else?” Mr. Sensitive Man asked me, his expression flat, not a single warm crinkle around his eyes. I’m pretty sure that if the crowd hadn’t suddenly begun clinking their silverware against their glasses, I would have been able to hear him gritting his teeth. Mrs. Alda turned her back to me, picked up a fork and banged it loudly against her water glass.
“Umm. No. I just thought it was a funny picture,” I said in a way I hoped really communicated: I didn’t mean to accuse you of fathering a child with someone other than your wife. Truly. I’m just a total dumb ass. A social retard, if you will.
Alda just stared at me as I stood there awkwardly…not walking away. Walk away, Cristy. Turn around and move your feet and don’t stop until you’ve reached your car, driven home and into your garage, closed the garage door, rolled the windows down and let the motor run until you’ve fallen into a blissful carbon monoxide-induced sleep. But I couldn’t end it like this. I’d already blown my first impression in spectacular fashion. I had to, at least, wrap up our meeting with something positive. Finally, I gushed, “I’m a really big fan of your work.” The actor nodded, then turned his back to me as the announcer introduced to the crowd, Mr. Alan Alda, the recipient of the evening’s Lifetime Achievement Award for his contributions to television and film.
Whom I’m certain doesn’t have a love child who attended school with me in 1978.
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83 thoughts on “How To Insult Alan Alda Without Really Trying”
Wow, now there’s something I bet you didn’t see coming! By the way, you are totally correct about the girl! If only it had all gone to plan…
Thank you! I know…for a second, I thought Alan Alda just didn’t know what he looked like. But that wasn’t it. He and his wife still probably talk about the time some girl tried to blackmail them and how she sucked at it, since she never asked for anything.
Cringe worthy! No better way to start my day than reading about someone other than me putting their feet in their mouths. The sudden, frenzied thought process during your near fall had me laughing out loud, and I never laugh out loud (seriously, I scared the dog).
Oh. My. God. Cristy…..Cringe worthy with a cherry on top. Was there a rock nearby to crawl under? That really ranks up there with Geraldo Rivera after opening up Al Capone’s vault..lol Great post as always!!
I think the only thing that keeps me from sinking completely to Geraldo’s level is the fact that I don’t have a Seventies Porn Star Mustache. Other than that, it was pretty darn bad. My only hope is that Alda will read this and realize that I showed him the photo with the best of intentions.
My mother was worried that I would hurt the feelings of the girl in the photo. I assured her that I didn’t use her name or indicate which school I’d attended at the time. And I never insulted the girl anyway. Looking like you could be Alan Alda’s daughter isn’t a terrible thing. I’m sure his daughters don’t think it’s a burden. Heck, this particular girl was on Homecoming Court in 7th grade. You know where I was during Homecoming in 7th grade – at home. Likely wiping tears from my face as I ruminated over whatever horrible names my classmates had called me that day in school. Ms. Alan Alda Lookalike did not suffer being ostracized by her peers. She went to a dance with a date and a corsage. My date was with Judy Blume.
Dude, this was so freaking awesome. I mean sucks for you but thanks for starting my weekend with a laugh. No way that kid isn’t his daughter. Great read as always.
Thanks, I think the storytelling posts about the humiliating moments in my life are my forte. Figures.
Write what you know.
Even though I’d sometimes like to forget it?
Might be a bit embarrassing but at least what you know is funny and interesting. When I write what I know it just ends up being on rotten sippy cups and movies I saw one time.
I’m sure you can find a funny moment to write about every day.
I attended a conference a few weeks ago (NECSS 2012). During a fundraising reception over drinks, I was describing my research to a few guys. It was pretty informal—in a bar actually. I was saying something about electron microscopy when this guy seemed like he had a quizzical look, so I said, “…you know how they use lenses to bend light. Well we use magnets to move electrons because a moving charge carries a magnetic field.” He smiled and thanked me. The next day, he made a long presentation on String theory. That’s right! I explained a rudimentary physics concept to a theoretical physicist. My embarrassment was mainly private, but still. I haven’t had that much egg on my face in some time.
I forgot to add—well written, and funny.
BTW, only in the blogosphere can you randomly reference string theory and have most of the people understand what you’re talking about. This world is like Comic Con – except everyone is typing instead of talking. I’m wearing storm trooper pajamas as we speak. No, not really…but you got excited, didn’t you?
I’ve never seen Star Wars. It wasn’t that big in India. But yeah, the blogosphere is disproportionately geeky.
I didn’t realize you were from India. Hmmm. I don’t have any Indian geek references. Drawing a total blank here. Please tell me that you – at the very least – watch Big Bang Theory.
Yeah, I’ve watched a couple of seasons. It seemed formulaic and repetitive after that.
You’re such a cynic (shaking my head). Of course it is. It’s a sitcom. Sitcoms are like the McDonalds of the world. People want to be able to wander in on any given day, order the same thing and enjoy it, and feel comfortable in their surroundings because they’re familiar. The important thing is that the food tastes good, which is why Big Bang Theory is more like the Krispy Kreme of the world of sitcoms in my book. Damn, I’m craving something right now and I’m not sure if it’s Sheldon Cooper or a donut. Since I haven’t eaten, I’m gonna go with the donut.
Hey, you’re equating sitcoms with McDonalds and I’m the cynic?
Okay, I stand corrected.
What I’m talking about is the likes of Frasier, Seinfeld, Friends etc. For now, 30 Rock is pretty funny. Somehow Big Bang Theory seems boring and skit-like.
Sorry, not feeling you on this subject. I love that show. I love each and every one of the characters. I mean, Friends, was alright – but the jokes were no more complex than Big Bang Theory. I used to study Friends when I was learning screenwriting and they use the same dozen or so joke set ups over and over again…every single show. And their characters weren’t nearly as interesting as the guys in Big Bang Theory. Maybe I just like it because they’re all nerds. Or maybe you’re just mad because Raj can’t talk to girls unless he’s drunk. At least he’s a scientist and not a 7-Eleven owner. Makes his character better than Apu from the Simpsons. Talk about a stereotype.
My being a teenager during most of Friends may have clouded my rationality.
But BBT jokes also seem predictable. And an Indian Ph.D. is as much a stereotype as being a 7-11 owner. I don’t mind either way; stereotypes are funny if they’re done tastefully. And Raj not being able to talk to women sober is funny. That they’re all nerds is what I like about BBT too.
That’s obviously what I like about since I was born a nerd. I just didn’t embrace it until I was an adult.
BTW, whatever you do, don’t go see Star Wars now. It’s one of those movies that you had to have seen as a kid first so that you don’t hate it as an adult. To see it for the first time through mature eyes will make you want to march right over to George Lucas’ compound and demand your money back, shouting, “You call this writing????????” Because I was nine when Star Wars came out, I can view it through nostalgia-tinted glasses and remember how cool it was to see special effects like that for the first time and to have a crush on Luke Skywalker (for like five whole seconds) and hold cinnamon buns up to your head, pretending to be Princess Leia (only to have your mom scream at you for getting icing in your hair). Not to mention, falling in love with an instrumental soundtrack for the first time in my life. I played that record to death.
So, anyway…don’t rent it. You’ll only be depressed if you do.
Yeah. Many movies that I liked as a kid kinda stayed that way, but seeing them now would depress people.
Classic. I think these moments happen when whatever universal power that exists wants us to remind us that we are mere mortals. And fucking stupid.
Yup. That evening ended well though. I had a chat with James Randi.
Your descriptions are perfect. I could visualize every moment, especially your dawning horror as you realized what was going through Alan Alda’s mind as you presented that yearbook photo (which is uncanny for sure).
Thanks, Transman! Wouldn’t it have sucked if they’d looked nothing alike? People would have been saying,”Man, you insulted a Hollywood icon…for no reason.” At least I’m vindicated. I just hope Alda doesn’t serve me with a cease and desist. I really meant nothing by it.
It’s probably his wife you’d have to watch out for.
Love it. Having been in a less-visible…less-famous similar situation, I completely understand the desire to spend “quality time” in the garage. Great way to start Saturday.
Yay! If my humiliation can make your day brighter, I’ve done my job!
It wasn’t the humiliation… it was the way you put it…
Oh, I know. You’re so sweet. There is a certain kind of relief that comes with purging all these embarrassing stories about my life. At some point in the future, someone may try to blackmail me with some info about my past and I’ll simply refer them to the post in which I’ve already written about the incident. Though I’m at a point in my life when I wouldn’t hesitate to admit anything I’ve done. I haven’t been much of a “baddie” in my life anyway. Really, I’m quite boring.
“Boring”? Nah… it’s all about how you spin it. 🙂
As always wonderful writing and this time I remembered to not be drinking anything as I read your post…I’m telling you, the cranberry juice being blown out your nostril thing is a bitch.
Yes, I hate a sticky keyboard! Thanks. 🙂
I once drove two hours to see him do a reading of Don’t Stuff Your Dog. I stood in line to get his signature and told him the one thing I’d been wanting to tell him for years. He paused mid-signature, looked at me with thoughtful eyes and said ‘thank you, that really means a lot’. He was touched. He was such a cool guy and in very much a non-pervy way, I can say that I touched Alan Alda.
Thanks…that just makes me feel worse. I really didn’t mean to offend him. I LOVE Alan Alda. This is why I communicate with people from behind a computer screen.
Never met anybody famous except for the guy who ran for VP on the Republican ticket when I was a kid. Big impression he made.
Thank God! Imagine if he had made a big impression. I doubt you’d be reading my blog.
Oh, wow. You had me at Gollum in a cocktail dress. If that kid wasn’t his daughter, she was a bizarre, double X chromosome (or maybe not) clone. Poor you! I think I would have hidden under my bed for the rest of my life.
I actually just crawled out last year. Oh, the shame!
I am dying 10,000 deaths with and for you, love.
You’re not alone, though. October 1999, I’m sitting on the bricks at City Hall Plaza Boston, waiting for Game 3 of the ALCS: Yanks/Sox, Roger Roid-head Clemmons/Pedro Martinez, live on the Jumbo-tron that was set up by Mayor-for-Life Thomas Menino.
If you’ve ever sat through a press conference, you’d know why he’s known as Mumbles. The indecipherable Boston accent, the syntax butchering…murder. I’m sitting on the bricks of City Hall, waiting for the game to begin. And who should start strolling toward me but Mumbles Menino, side by side with…one of my idols…Red Sox centerfielder Dom DiMaggio. (The Les Brown Orchestra chorus was “He’s just a man and not a freak, Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio!” The Boston homage was “He’s better than his brother Joe, Dominic DiMaggio!”)
They’re coming for me, and neither are seeing me, and I’m too awed to move. Until it’s too late.
The Mayor of Boston, the Honorable Thomas Menino, trips over my left shoulder. And what do I say? In classic Ralphie “Ohhhhfuuuuudge” mode, I say, “Sorry, Mummmmbbbbb…”
At this point I manage to catch myself and turn it into “Sorry, Mummmbbbbhoooner.”
So, in front of one of my life-time idols, I have just referred to the Honorable Mayor of Boston as Mumbles slash Mumbhonor Menino.
Not long after that, however, I partied with Nile Rogers and did the Neutron Dance with Ruth Pointer, so there is recompense after mortification…
I can’t decide what is funnier…your story or the fact that you did “the Neutron Dance.” Of course, I remember the Neutron Dance. Well. So I can’t even pick on you for that. You should turn this story into a post! I’m discovering that a lot of my best stuff is ending up on people’s comment pages. I’ve got to stop doing that.
LMAO… at work… trying to contain the out-loud laughter I want to explode out by shuddering my shoulders and sniggering — like that dog in that cartoon the name of which will come to me in a minute — tears running down my cheeks instead and oh my gawd I can’t breathe. And yours is the one blog that has comments as funny or better than the original post.
Muttley! That’s him: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uSTOHa4Im4
Dear god. Poor Cristy. Poor Alan. Poor Arelene. I can say only one good thing about this: it was you, not me.
Thank you for your generosity, my friend. There is one other good thing that came out of it: this post!
Indeed. Thank you, as always, for offering your mortification for our entertainment. You are truly selfless.
How funny! And how embarrassing. I hate it when there’s a reason you’re doing something and it’s entirely innocent but SO easily goes sideways like that. Eek! Odd that he’d react that way. Someone entirely innocent should have found it funny.
Good point. Then again, maybe he gets this kind of thing all the time.
Reblogged this on Notes from a "Closet" Writer and commented:
I LIVE this woman…she elicits my out loud, insane laughter! I can relate to her recountings from the girl who ruined her childhood to this story…I’ve been there myself & I’m happy that someone else can find humor in their own moments of buffonery. Thanks!
Thank you so much for sharing my post, kaiamorrigan. The best thing about surviving humiliation is being able to write about it.
Has anyone ever told you that as a blond you bear a striking resemblance to Leeza Gibbons? You might be my long lost Entertainment Tonight sister. We certainly share the same dysfunctions. I can’t tell you how nice it is to read about these embarrassing things not happening to me.
No, this is a first. Now being compared to gibbons, that happens all the time – and as a proponent of Darwinism, I don’t find it insulting.
I’m so glad that my pain can bring you joy. This is my version of making lemonade out of lemons.
You must be really graceful in trees.
I was President of the Devonaire Tree Climbing Club, a title earned by shimmying higher up a tree than any other kid in the neighborhood.
Written eloquence AND tree climbing ability? Well that puts the rest of us at a disadvantage.
I could toss balled up poems at you from atop a fir tree. Beware!
Thank you for allowing me to start the day laughing! As a taller than average woman myself, meandering through life convinced I am taking more space than is typically allotted, your telling of a well intended flub in all it’s glorious humiliation, was one I could see happening to me. Slinking away unnoticed is hard to do when you are 5’10”. No slinking needed in the smart and stinging retelling of your tale. LOVED IT! And LOVE your blog!
Thank you for your kind words, my taller than average sister. You sound like you’re quite the wordsmith yourself!
Yikes. So what happened to your career in journalism…?
It was a part time gig. I was practicing law most of the time I was doing it. I don’t have an interest in writing hard core journalism and there just wasn’t enough work where I used to live for someone writing feature articles.
this seriously may be my most favorite piece of yours. it’s hilarious and touching. everyone has had that brush with celebrity where it all goes to shit in some way, well, at least i have. i loved it. loved. xo, sm
I’m so glad you liked it. This is one of my faves so far too!
I always cynically read comments on blogs where people are “laughing so hard tears are rolling down their faces” or “snorting coffee” or whatever other cliches people use, but I have to tell you that while reading this I started laughing, and I did that creepy but cathartic thing where I started sobbing while I was laughing, now I’m starting again…
If only Mr. Alda had found the situation just as amusing.
I want to see video of the creepy, cathartic sobbing and laughing. Hmmm, how can I harness this power for personal profit?
P.S. Checked out your blog. You’re a talented writer!
thanks. You know that feeling where you’re smiling and laughing but you feel yourself going over to the dark side, like those videos of babies laughing on youtube where they can’t stop and they start freaking themselves out? It didn’t hurt that I had a bad night’s sleep last night and was a little delirious, but still very funny and really absurd, which I love. I think the part where Alan and the little missus are looking at you suspiciously and not laughing, and it’s slowly dawning on you that they aren’t amused- that’s the part where I started to tip towards hysteria especially when I scrolled up and looked at that girl’s picture again, so silly!
Wow, that was great. You’ve made me want to write about my awkward celebrity encounters. But I write a travel blog, it’d be *such* a narrative stretch.
Thanks to Sweet Mother for showing me the way to your writing!
Thanks for visiting! Isn’t SM awesome? I’m in blog love with her. I will have to check out your travel blog. After unintentionally insulting celebrities, it’s my second passion.
This is hilarious! Reminds me of my time as a boxing/mma writer when Buster Douglas-former heavyweight champion and the 1st man to defeat Mike Tyson for those of you who don’t know- wanted to crush my face because of a question I asked him at a particularly bad moment.
Ooooooh! At least Alan Alda is a spindly fellow. I think I could have taken him. LOL If you write about your Buster Douglas encounter, please come back and let me know. I’d love to read that!
I came across this post after Googling “Alan Alda daughter” and clicking images. Holy shit! I exclaimed, she looks just like her daddy! Then I read the post haha. You’re hilarious. I would’ve thought he would of thought it was kind of funny. Oh well.
Thanks…and no, he did not seem pleased.
I worked at a five star hotel and so meeting a lot of famous people, I found it best to just be myself.
Yeah. That’s my problem.
What a freaking stupid thing to approach anyone about, much less a famous celebrity that you don’t even know.
Thank you, Captain Obvious. I believe my post made that abundantly clear. Now troll along…
Fuck Alan Alda he’s the reason Mash went to shit and he sucks.
Oh, my! Did someone forget to take his Viagra today? Poor Alan Alda. First, my foolish antics and now this…